


Touch me, d̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ touch me

by bearsquares



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/M, One Shot, Post-Time Skip, Scars, Unresolved Sexual Tension, [[sexual healing blaring in the distance]]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 05:25:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21174152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearsquares/pseuds/bearsquares
Summary: Disastrous accidents in strange places call for unconventional healing techniques.





	Touch me, d̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ touch me

The Garland Moon brought heavy rains and higher temperatures to the southern reaches of Fódlan. Fields turned to marshes, battlefields to miserable slogs as soldiers fought for their lives in sweltering humidity, as vulnerable to the heat as they were arrows and blades. Any sane tactician would conclude a strategic push at this time posed greater risks than rewards but the resistance army based out of Garreg Mach didn't have the luxury of choice. Engage in these conditions or lose momentum.

Though Felix hailed from a northern region and detested hot climates, he refused to shed a single layer of his clothing. The others who migrated back to the monastery arrived in similar thick garb but opted for lighter layers and armor to accommodate the changing seasons. Weakness, in his opinion, but they weren’t as stubborn nor did they share his reservations about running around half-naked on a battlefield. Even now, mired in a veritable sea of mud deep in enemy territory, he continued fighting in fur and thick padding, not yet hindered enough to give up and adapt. He had his reasons, buried deep in his memory and more pervasive than climate.

It would come as a shock to anyone who met him now but Felix was a happy child. He got along well with other children, often described as kind and outgoing. Unlike many second sons, he never had to worry about disownment or neglect — he received plenty of attention, in fact. That was the problem. 

Adults said careless things to him, infantilized him with tactless remarks about his sleek hair and compliments on his fair complexion. For years he endured it, unsure of how to respond. He had no desire for praise or recognition from anyone but his brother, for anything but his skill with a sword, yet he could never escape words like _ cute _ and _ darling _. Some were even self-entitled enough to touch him, acting like something as inconsequential as skin mattered enough to harass a child.

Looks were much like crests in that way: sources of pride or shame, too much or not enough, flaunting or hiding. Noble society was a contrived and rotten thing. He wanted no part of it so he protected himself, gave them something else to talk about. Felix Hugo Fraldarius was sharp glares, biting remarks and the business end of a sword, not pretty hair and perfect skin. He was an animal too powerful and vicious to provoke, and everyone around him did well to remember it. That reputation flourished in war and he had the scars to prove it. 

His precious pale skin was far from perfect now, tarnished with cuts, tears, punctures, burns, claw marks. Most were surface wounds he mended himself in the first few years of the war but some went deeper — never enough to impair his fighting ability but enough to remind him of too-close calls. The damage to his body was reassuring in that way, proof that he still had enough hunger left in him to struggle. He lived the way he wanted and survived for himself. Those scars were his, for him to see, not for others to gawk at or soothe. The thought of unwanted attention or healers oozing sympathy made him sick, so he learned to get by on his own, escape when he had to, lick his wounds. But accidents happened. 

Accidents like being run through with a four-meter lance.

Felix remembered little of the attack apart from holding on to the blood-slicked shaft of the weapon and somehow flipping its wielder off their mount. The kill was clear as day; nothing out of the ordinary for anyone unfortunate enough to wind up under his boot. Things went fuzzy from there. 

Sylvain (and Raphael of all people) found him eventually, slumped against a riderless horse with a weathered ash pole protruding from either side of his chest. Hours had passed, they told him. He took amusement in their concern, giggling, woozy from blood loss. He allegedly joked with Raphael, laughed aloud while the bear of a man wrenched the lance out of him like it was a splinter. 

What a grotesque thing it was. Polished wood grating against his bones, sliding wet through muscle, so loud inside him, he felt it in his teeth — no pain but an overload of feeling. He laughed at the fullness, the emptiness, the absurdity of the whole situation. Sylvain’s clumsy heal spell stopped the bleeding and sealed the wound, enough for Felix to get his wits together and hurl himself back into battle. Continued fighting cost him, however. Deep, agonizing spasms shot through his arm while he hacked through the remaining enemies and by the end he was near fainting from shock and heat exhaustion. It was a small miracle he survived at all.

The pain subsided over the next day, replaced by a maddening itch deep in his frayed muscle. Felix still felt the spear handle lodged between his shoulder blade and collarbone, and every swing of his sword disturbed it, aggravated it, made it tickle. He tried shaking it out, stretching, even risking further damage using his rudimentary healing magic, all to no avail. His arm was in shambles and he needed someone's help. The trouble was he didn't want to ask that someone for help. He wouldn’t have asked her five years ago and he didn’t want to ask her now. 

"How's the shoulder?"

Byleth didn’t look up when he entered the medical tent, focused instead on rolling up gauze strips and folding compresses. They couldn’t risk losing a physician on such a small, borderline-suicidal operation so the duty fell to her. Cutting throats with one hand and healing wounds with the other. That was their professor: versatile, adept, too agreeable for her own good.

"Word gets around fast," Felix muttered. He couldn’t help wondering if she heard the full story, about his charging back into battle like a complete fool. "It's not bad, that oaf just screwed something up. It's...getting in the way."

“Sylvain, you mean?”

“Who else?”

She kept her head down, still fiddling with the damn gauze. “Oaf. That's cute.”

“Can you help or not?”

His obstinance earned him a half-smile and a hollow chuckle. “Come in. I’ll have a look.”

Anxiety bloomed in his gut. He hovered at the mouth of the tent, eyes shifting. “Look?” 

“I need to see the wound if I’m going to treat it." She fixed him with her inscrutable stare. "Would you mind removing your shirt?”

Why hadn't he considered the implications of asking her to heal him in the first place? If he stayed, she would see his bare skin and his collection of wounds. Worse yet, she would have to touch him. He didn't know if he could handle that outside of combat. Their relationship was physical for the most part — as training partners and allies in battle — but that dynamic involved a specific tension unfit for an infirmary tent.

Their other healers (those he allowed to touch him) never affected him this way. Mercedes knew about his hang-ups, Linhardt didn't care, and Manuela was Manuela. 

Here, standing numb and self-conscious in Byleth's tent, Felix felt rare gratitude for the crass songstress-turned-physician. They didn’t enjoy each other’s company, so they avoided interacting unless absolutely necessary. It was a surprisingly efficient working relationship. 

He remembered trudging up to the infirmary his first day at the academy. Before he could even set foot in the room, this complete stranger called out, "alright, clothes off." When young, sullen Felix met her command with a scowl, she rolled her eyes. “Yes. How silly of me. You’ll probably feel better with another man present.” She then shouted across the hall, loud enough for the entire monastery to hear. “Hanneman, will you come in here? The dear’s a little shy about undressing in front of me.”

The old man called back, “I don’t blame him.”

Manuela abandoned her false politeness and veered off into a rant, listing the ways Hanneman drove her nuts and wondering aloud why men are so terrible. Felix was shirtless and too pissed off to care at that point. He didn't even flinch when the batty woman leaned over him for a thermometer and mashed her ridiculous bosoms against his shoulder — yet she was the one to express disgust! As if it was his fault she couldn’t stuff herself into a regular blouse.

The tiring memory kicked over to thoughts of Byleth leaning across his lap. And her not-ridiculous bosoms.

“Would you rather leave it on and I reach underneath?”

Reaching underneath sounded worse, somehow. He took a seat on the flimsy infirmary bed, grasping for something of a cool exterior. “Knock it off, I’m not a kid.”

Byleth hummed, implying a smart “I never said you were” response — another reason for his reluctance. She knew how to rile him up. She wouldn’t be a very good sparring partner if she didn’t.

To his relief, she turned away when he began pulling at his various ties and buckles. He yanked his undershirt over his head, reminding himself over and over that the use of his sword arm was more important than funny feelings about his commander. His feelings had always been funny, he supposed, they were just easier to justify when she was his teacher.

To think he used to feel giddy whenever she looked his way. He scraped together excuses to talk to her, come up with random questions to hold her attention. 

Now that he had her, he wanted to run.

"Wow,” was all she said.

Felix curled in on himself a little. “What?”

“Sylvain did a nice job on the outside.” 

“Tch.”

“May I?” 

She seemed eager to touch him — treat him, rather. He gave her the go-ahead.

Her hands were much softer than he expected. Of course. The girls commented on that quite a bit. He always took notice because he wrestled with jealous curiosity whenever they touched her. 

“Did you feel any pain when it happened?”

“No.”

Byleth nodded, then took a step between his open knees, close to plunging his face into her cleavage. 

One quick tug on her hips would have her in his lap, right where he shouldn’t want her. 

She prodded at the exit site, soft touches around the wound as if avoiding the phantom lance still pierced through him. He barely felt her, either due to nerve damage or applying every ounce of his consciousness to suppressing an erection. “How about now?”

"Doesn't hurt."

“But you felt pain at one point—”

“Why does it matter?” he snapped. 

She stepped back, still studying him. “I want to rule out any strange magic or venom. You don't usually suffer this much.”

How could she know that? The lance, the tingling, the encroaching madness that came with it? Could she also tell she was chipping away at his self-control by being a miserable tease?

Byleth furrowed her brow at his questioning look. “What? You wouldn’t have come to me if it wasn’t serious.”

The tension building inside of him, seconds from exploding, drained away.

He was in danger of losing something precious to him, that he couldn’t imagine living without. She had no trouble understanding the deep anxieties that came with his propensity for killing because she was the same. It was what drew him to her to begin with, and led him to trust her.

Felix took a calming breath, then described the event and what bothered him since, this time in a calmer, more polite voice. She listened, her intent gaze never leaving his face. At least she had the courtesy to keep her eyes away from his patchwork of marred skin, anemic and lily-white.

"Lie down."

"Which way?" he asked stupidly.

"On your stomach."

“Oh… Okay."

Submission was a loss of face, flat-out, no matter how much anticipation lurked beneath. He hated feeling weak like a child and yet he struggled like one, and she held on, never too tight, until he stopped fighting her. Had he known any such woman growing up, he may have thought her motherly, but Felix had enough mothers. Byleth was not so easy to define. Did a label exist for someone who never treated him as anything less than equal? Who held his trust even as he anticipated her moves to destroy him?

"Do you have to sit on me?"

"It might make things easier."

Felix couldn’t help questioning her methods. Healing magic worked best through direct contact but how would mounting his rear possibly benefit his shoulder? More importantly, would she do this with someone else?

"I can get off—"

“No!” he blurted. The thought that maybe she wanted to be this close to him took a stranglehold of his mind, demanding he let it happen, that if he were to die tomorrow, he could at least go with one less regret. “Let’s just get this over with.”

She chuckled. "Alright."

Felix buried his face in his folded arms and straightened his back. Keeping his head down wouldn’t help calm his nerves, not when he could feel her proximity. The mattress dipped on either side of his waist and he knew she was deciding how best to straddle him. At least he lay flat on his stomach and any undesired physical responses to her touch would remain out of sight, jabbing into the mattress, pleading for just a little movement.

First came her body heat, then her comforting weight when she lowered her soft thighs onto his ass. 

“You don’t have to hold your breath.”

“I’m not.”

He held his breath, dreading the moment she placed her hands on him, certain he would jump on contact and she would laugh at him for behaving so oddly. There was also his lingering misgiving toward people touching him, looking at him like this. 

Relief touched him before she did, reaching deep beneath his skin, radiating warmth, undoing every knot and mending every tear, soothing in spite of the oppressive heat outside. It didn’t even bother him to hear her soft, pained moan when she pushed on his shoulder with all of her weight. When had healing magic ever been this good? When had being touched at all? That horrible itch was gone at last and it felt so wonderful that Felix let out a heavy groan. 

She withdrew her hands. He tensed up beneath her. His swollen prick twitched against his thigh. The tent fell silent.

The sudden absence of touch was like someone dousing hot coals with freezing water. He wanted to disappear, go bury himself in filthy mud, demand she resume whatever she had been doing to him.

His voice came out harsh in an attempt to mask his quivering nerves. “Are you almost done?”

“Not sure.”

He swallowed, cheeks burning. “Hurry up.”

Her fingertips pressed into his skin, spreading to bring her palm flat over the aching joint of his shoulder. Blissful heat rolled in slow this time and the deep, horrible itching returned. His lewd moan must have thrown her off and now he would suffer for it.

Who the hell taught her this wicked technique? Though she seemed inappropriately obsessed with Byleth, there was no way a pious individual like the archbishop would have imparted something so bold and erotic. And she was too confident to have learned this recently, otherwise, he would not hesitate to blame Dorothea. That left Manuela. If anyone knew about white magic and seducing men, it would be her. He pictured her walking Byleth through the healing process, peppering in sly pointers for killing her patients with sexual frustration — Felix assumed, because he was about to break.

“There it is,” she whispered to herself, voice tight.

She shifted forward to press her other hand over the exit wound on his chest and, in doing so, shoved the mound of her crotch against his ass. Felix bit down on his lip and tried to ignore it but that was impossible because he felt a different kind of heat against him now. She yanked that realization out from beneath him by kneading crushing pressure into his shoulder. An observer might think she was digging the wound open with her fist, punching through the back right out the front as the lance had done. If only it hurt so. The deep tickling feeling dissolved once more, replaced with a strange euphoria, winding down his spine, curving between his legs. He considered stopping her, even bucking her off because he was about to make another horrible approving noise. But she was so warm, squeezing his waist between her thighs, moving just enough against him he didn’t have the heart to stop her.

“Try to relax for me.”

Like hell he could relax like this.

"Talk," he said.

"What about?"

"Anything.” He stifled a gasp at another grind of her fist. “Please."

"I'm sorry to say I peeked."

Felix buried his face deeper into the mattress, ignoring the jab of hay against his skin. Why was he blushing? "Why?"

"Curiosity. You have more scars on your front than your back."

"So what?” His cheeks burned hotter knowing she snuck a look at him. He would do the same to her if he had the chance — the chance was there, he chided himself, he just didn’t take it. “Are you going to tell me it’s a sign of foolishness?" If he turned this into an argument, he could keep himself under control. 

"It’s a sign of hunger."

His stomach dropped.

"You said you still hadn't found your own. Years ago. Maybe you don't remember." 

He remembered alright.

She kept quiet for a moment, now holding his front and back between her palms. "Do they mean you finally did?”

In a manner, yes. The harder he fought, the less time he had to ponder his reason for surviving. His scars increased as his hunger waned, like markers on his slow path to starvation. Battle wasn't hard to come by; pithy tests of strength were at his disposal whenever it pleased him, but she was not. The professor was in one spot on the battlefield, on one side of the conflict — his ideal place in this war was with her, making sure she would still be around to keep that hunger alive.

Felix didn’t believe in fate or wasting his life wallowing in grief but he couldn’t deny what she had become to him.

“Did you fall asleep?”

“No.”

“Oh. You went pretty limp there for a second.”

If only. “Now are we done?”

“Yes.”

When she didn’t move right away, he thought of reaching back and grabbing her thigh. If he acted, he could set something in motion, something very stupid that he would only regret until it happened again. There would be no need to find an excuse to get her alone or stoop so low as to proposition her — wastes of his time. All he had to do now was turn over and pull some fabric aside. It made perfect sense. He had no reason not to make a move.

But she got up.

He wanted to scream. Did she know how infuriating she was? That if she didn’t stop speaking to him or looking at him or touching him, he might snap and tell her he wanted her? 

Byleth sounded a little breathless when she finally spoke. “I believe I can get you back to normal but we’re stuck out here for a few days. It’ll take some time.”

“How much time?”

“Would you come back tomorrow?”

This all over again. Her weight, the heat, the unbearable pleasure that came with it. Again. “Fine.”

“Hopefully there will be fewer injuries so I can do more for you,” she said over the rustling of her cloak. “You might want to stay there a moment. Let it settle.”

He would have to, or give her a good look at the side effect of whatever magic she just worked on him.

“I’ll leave you alone, then. Take your time—”

"Wait."

“Yes?”

“I… I don’t mind if we do this again but…” He cleared his dry throat. “Don’t do it with anyone else.”

Byleth didn’t reply right away, allowing his little demand to hang in silence for an excruciating moment. She was still as a statue or already gone — he was no less mortified either way. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Part of him felt her cheeks were flushed like his, and if he were to see it, he might have to admit he loved her. Accepting such a thing meant accepting that he could love at all, that he was more than capable, buckling under more than he knew what to do with. But he would shoulder his feelings as always, knowing they would survive as long as he did. If he made it, he thought. Maybe then.

So he kept his head down, smirked a little, and thanked the goddess he wouldn’t need to make up some crazy excuse to get himself stabbed again.

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been stuck on this for a few months now so I am overjoyed to be done with it. Sometimes you think too hard about a tsundere in thigh-highs with the emotional resolve of a saltine cracker. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
